


Toast

by green_violin_bow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, But it's OK because he can do better, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Pre-Slash, University, mystrade, poor Greg, pre-Mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 14:48:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8582548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_violin_bow/pseuds/green_violin_bow
Summary: When Lestrade moved in, a couple of weeks after Mycroft, it became obvious there wasn’t going to be much of a meeting of minds between them. Lestrade played rugby, was studying criminology, and dating a girl who had a laugh so high-pitched and insistent Mycroft privately thought it could be used as a dog lure. Mycroft snobbishly assumed that Greg was at Oxford on a scholarship, given his accent and comprehensive-school background. It was all much complicated by the fact that Greg Lestrade was ridiculously attractive, with his dark hair, deep, mischievous brown eyes, and warm, ready grin. Mycroft’s mouth went dry just thinking about him. On the whole, therefore, it was safer to avoid him.





	

“Damn. Damn, shit, fuck and damn.”

Mycroft rubbed his tired eyes and looked up from the library book he’d been poring over for hours, now registering that dusk had fallen as he studied, and that the orange light from his desk lamp was a glowing island in an otherwise dark room.

Stiffly, he got up to draw his curtains, and blinked several times as he snapped the overhead light on. He stretched a little, his white shirt pulling taut across his shoulders as he worked out the tension from hunching over his books for hours, in the uncomfortable wooden chair next to his desk. A debris of notes, highlighters, and dusty tomes from the library were scattered over his desk. He picked up his water glass – emptied hours ago, and never refilled – and turned to the door. Time to go and find out what Lestrade was swearing about.

He opened the door rather cautiously. There were banging noises coming from the small kitchen of the tiny campus flat they shared. They sounded extremely bad-tempered. Mycroft padded into the kitchen.

Lestrade was shoving a couple of slices of toast into the toaster as Mycroft entered the room. Mycroft silently noted that it was his bread being used, but didn’t make an issue of it. He crossed to the tap and started to run it cold. The toaster was refusing to stay down, and Lestrade was pushing at it with increasing force.

“Um –” said Mycroft, quietly. “You need to –”

Lestrade rounded on him, breathing hard in his annoyance, and stared at him. Mycroft avoided his eyes, and leant over to turn the toaster on at the plug. “It won’t stay down unless it’s on,” he muttered quietly.

There was a pause. Lestrade frowned harder for a second, then drew his brows down, rubbed his eyes with both hands and let out a growl of frustration, which turned into a rather hysterical laugh. “Shit. Thanks Mycroft. Jesus, what a prat.” He collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs, still laughing weakly.

Mycroft busied himself with sipping at his glass of water. He didn’t look at Lestrade. He couldn’t exactly say that he and his flatmate were friends – or even really acquaintances. The best option the university had been able to offer him this year had been accommodation with just one other person – a small flat in a university-owned house off St Giles. He had taken it, eager to avoid the stifling college system of first year, the enforced attendance at meals. There was still formal hall every Friday, of course, but it was just a couple of hours a week, rather than three times a day. At least Oxford didn’t make you share rooms, but college accommodation was a nightmare of people coming and going at all times, of drinking and shouting and – it would seem – a complete lack of the will to do any work at all.

When Lestrade moved in, a couple of weeks after Mycroft, it became obvious there wasn’t going to be much of a meeting of minds between them. Lestrade played rugby, was studying criminology, and dating a girl who had a laugh so high-pitched and insistent Mycroft privately thought it could be used as a dog lure. Mycroft snobbishly assumed that Greg was at Oxford on a scholarship, given his accent and comprehensive-school background. They made awkward conversation a couple of times, but on the whole Mycroft preferred to plan his forays out of his room at times when he knew Greg would be out. Very occasionally, he appeared in the kitchen to show that he was willing to socialise, even if very briefly.

It was all much complicated by the fact that Greg Lestrade was ridiculously attractive, with his dark hair, deep, mischievous brown eyes, and warm, ready grin. Mycroft’s mouth went dry just thinking about him. On the whole, therefore, it was safer to avoid him.

Out of the corner of his eye, however, Mycroft could see that Greg’s brown eyes weren’t exactly sparkling today. On the contrary, they looked a little red and swollen, as though perhaps – perhaps he had been crying. Mycroft leant against the counter, and postponed his return to his room by pouring himself another glass of water. There was rather an awkward silence, into which the toast popped up.

Greg hauled himself out of his chair, and reached down a plate from the cupboard. He opened and closed a drawer and the fridge rather forcefully, then started buttering the toast. After a few moments, he turned slightly, glancing obliquely at Mycroft. “Sorry about –” he paused and waved the knife vaguely, in illustration. “All that. Swearing, and shouting and stuff.” He went back to the buttering. Mycroft took another sip of water. Was this a prompt to ask for more details on the situation? He thought perhaps the tone suggested it, but how to do so, without assuming a level of friendship that they had hardly achieved?

“It’s just,” exploded Greg, dropping his knife onto the plate and turning to look directly at Mycroft, “Melanie chose today to tell me she’s been cheating on me with Phil – one of the team – like, we went out to lunch, had a perfectly nice time as far as I knew, I dropped her home and then she started crying, told me everything and said she wants to stay together! After all that! So then I got all –” Greg looked uncomfortable and crossed his arms, shifted his weight a little. “Upset, you know? And we ended up shouting at one another and –” his eyes flew to the side, cheeks turning slightly pink. Mycroft cleared his throat and took another sip of water, willing his own cheeks not to turn red. “And after that we talked some more, and eventually I couldn’t take it any more and just left. But we didn’t end things, and I’m just so – I mean, she _knows_ I’ve got that big mock exam tomorrow, we’re going to get our projected grade for next term out of it. I’m just so –” he gestured helplessly. “I don’t know why she couldn’t have just left me in blissful ignorance until at least tomorrow was over.” He huffed a dry laugh and muttered _fucking stupid_ to himself, under his breath. “The whole bloody mess took hours, and now I have to try and get ready for this test. Jesus.”

Mycroft stood silently for a few moments, entirely unsure what to say. Given that they had only exchanged short remarks and pleasantries occasionally, this outburst from his flatmate was both unexpected and embarrassing.

“Yeah, anyway,” said Greg tightly. “I’m going to –” he didn’t bother finishing the sentence, instead picking up his plate of toast and turning towards the door, shoulders tense.

“Um,” said Mycroft, to Greg’s back. “I was studying too. I have an essay to finish for tomorrow.” He took a deep breath. “I could – bring my laptop through here. If you wanted to work at the table.”

Greg turned slowly to look at him, as though checking his face for sincerity. And then he gave a small smile, just a shadow of his usual beaming grin. “Yeah. Actually yeah, that would be…good. Force me to concentrate,” he added, with a weak chuckle.

In a few minutes, they were both at the kitchen table. Mycroft pushed on with his essay, trying not to spend too much time looking at Lestrade’s expression of concentration – which apparently involved biting his full bottom lip as he read and made notes. After a while, Lestrade got up to pour himself a glass of water, and fetched one for Mycroft too. Mycroft didn’t even notice until he’d half-finished it, but he was part-way through an important paragraph on Hayek and only mumbled a quiet, “oh, thanks.”

“Mind if I put some music on?” asked Greg, after a while.

Mycroft, who had hardly heard the question, made a non-committal response. It was only a while later that he paid attention to the quiet Spanish-sounding guitar music. He liked it. It wasn’t what he would have expected Greg to be into.

An hour later, he had a full first draft of his essay. He still needed to edit and rework, and his referencing was a mess, but he could afford a short break. He stretched again, realising how numb he was from the uncomfortable kitchen chair.

He got up and put the kettle on. His eyes fell on the glass of water Greg had brought him. He reached down two mugs.

When he passed Greg the cup of tea, the other boy sat back, ran his hand through his dark hair and blew out his breath in a long groan. “Ahh, thanks for this, I could use it,” he said, blowing on the tea then taking a sip. “Great cuppa,” he added, sending a rather brighter smile across the table at Mycroft. “You finished your essay?”

“Only the first draft,” said Mycroft, wearily. “And the bibliography is still in need of attention.”

Greg groaned. “God, I _hate_ referencing,” he said sympathetically. “If I could I’d pay someone to do it for me. You not having dinner?” he added, looking at Mycroft as he sipped his tea.

“Maybe later,” said Mycroft, vaguely. There was no way on earth he was going to _eat_ in front of Greg Lestrade. “And your preparation for the exam? Is it complete?”

Greg sighed. “Well, I’m pretty sound on the stuff from the core module and the critical criminology elective, but this law module –” he blew out his breath. “I don’t get it at all, and I know it’s not even proper law – it’s only a basic principles course for criminology students, but even so. It’s impenetrable.”

Mycroft nodded. He tried to look sympathetic. Was he succeeding? He had never encountered an academic problem he couldn’t grasp, and was therefore inexperienced in Greg’s situation. But Greg gave him another smile, so perhaps all was well.

They each sipped their tea for a few moments, then Greg sighed. “D’you think it’s possible to carry on a relationship once you don’t trust the other person?”

Mycroft swallowed a sip of tea. “I –” he hesitated. “I am afraid I have no personal experience of the situation, but I understand that many people do continue their relationships after infidelity.” Careful. Neutral. Pompous. He looked down at the table.

“Yeah.” Greg was silent for a few moments. “Girlfriend’s never done this to you, then?” he asked mock-humourously. Mycroft could hear the stretched tension in the question.

He stared more fixedly at the table. “I – no. That has never – but anyway,” he cleared his throat, a little nervously. _Rugby team,_ said his brain, _this isn’t a good idea. He won’t want to do this anymore once he knows. He’ll be weird about sharing a bathroom._ “It would not have been – it would have been a boyfriend,” he finished quietly.

“Shit, sorry Mycroft,” said Greg. Mycroft was just about to roll his eyes and ask _why are you sorry I’m gay,_ when Greg added, “didn’t mean to – y’know, assume anything.” Mycroft flicked his eyes up to Greg’s face to check his expression. It was perfectly earnest.

Surprised, Mycroft mumbled, “that’s okay.”

“You’ve not joined the LGBT society then?” asked Greg, himself sounding a little surprised. Mycroft grimaced.

“Why would I?”

“Oh I dunno,” grinned Greg. “Go out, have fun, maybe meet someone?”

“I already participate in two subject societies,” said Mycroft, rather stiffly. “I hardly feel the need to –”

Greg cut him off. “Yeah, but those always have the tutors involved and stuff. I mean a proper student society. Somewhere to let off steam a bit.”

Mycroft stared at him openly now. Why this bizarre interest in whether he’d join the LGBT society or not? Greg stared back at him, looking equally confused. And then understanding dawned over his face. “Oh – shit – God Mycroft, you must think I’m really weird,” he laughed. “I’m on the society student council.”

Mycroft blinked. “You –”

“Yeah,” grinned Greg. “I’m bi.” His face darkened. “You can bet Melanie doesn’t like me helping out with it though. You know she actually said once that she thought it made her look bad that her boyfriend _kept a foot in that world?_ Actually, Jesus, I don’t know why I haven’t dumped her already.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows were raised. He and Greg shared a rather uncomfortable laugh, which slowly turned more comradely.

“You should definitely come along,” smiled Greg. “It’s good fun. And it’s not horrible circle drinking or anything, like the bloody rugby society.” He rolled his eyes. “We have a film night on Tuesdays, and then a discussion afterwards. You could at least come to one, see if you like it.”

Slowly, Mycroft nodded. “I – maybe,” he said, looking up at Greg.

“Yeah, OK,” grinned Greg, teasingly. “I _will_ make you come along. And don’t think you can hide in the library, I know where you sit.” He laughed at Mycroft’s disdainful look, then ran a hand through his hair. “Right. Come on Mycroft. We need to crack on if we’re going to get to sleep before two.”

Mycroft ignored the sudden leap of his heart in his chest at those words. For another hour, they each worked on their own side of the table. Eventually, around one-thirty, Mycroft saved his essay and closed the document. He’d print and check it again in the morning. For now, he could hardly see he was so tired.

Greg, too, was yawning. “I think I know enough of this law module to get by,” he mumbled. “Exam’s not until two tomorrow anyway, so I’ll cram a bit more in the morning. Is it okay if I just leave my stuff spread out here?”

Mycroft nodded, numbly, looking at Greg’s tired face through his eyelashes. The other boy had dark circles around his eyes from exhaustion and his earlier upset. He still looked unreasonably handsome. Greg opened his eyes and caught him looking. They stayed entirely still for a moment, then Greg smiled at him, gently. “I’m really glad you were around to talk to,” he said. “Thanks for listening to me.”

Mycroft’s head felt fuzzy. His cheeks were a little heated. “No, that’s okay,” he mumbled.

“Right, time for bed,” yawned Greg. “’Nother glass of water?”

“Please,” muttered Mycroft, standing up and stretching. He was starving, but he could get by until breakfast now. “Thanks for um – inviting me. To the film night.”

Greg passed him the glass of water, and their fingers brushed slightly. “I’d love you to come,” he smiled. Perhaps Mycroft was kidding himself that he slightly emphasised the _I._

Mycroft flicked his gaze up. Again, only sincerity. “I – I will,” he said.

“Great,” said Greg happily. “It’s a date.” There was something warm in his voice that made Mycroft’s stomach turn another somersault. He blushed and turned resolutely for the door.

In the corridor, Greg said goodnight, and for a moment Mycroft felt the other boy’s hand on his shoulder. He took a deep breath as he closed his bedroom door, then leant his forehead against the cool, solid wood.

_Damn. Damn, shit, fuck and damn._


End file.
